The Pen Is Mightier
by unpredictablemary
Summary: CS Modern AU. Emma Swan is on sabbatical in Ireland, taking an extended vacation from her day job to work on her second novel, but inspiration is failing to strike. When she meets Killian Jones, the owner of the local bookshop and an author himself, he presents her with an odd challenge - one that will ultimately help both of them face what they're really looking for.
1. Chapter 1

_Hello! I'm back, after a (rather unintentional) hiatus! I apologize for my absence and I am working on catching up on all my works in progress. This is one of the many things I've been bouncing around for a little while. Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

Emma wandered down the street, swinging a light grocery bag from her fingers, letting her feet move slowly. She felt relaxed, and this was a stunning thing. She hadn't been relaxed in months.

But that was what this trip had been for, and Emma was relieved to feel it was finally working. She'd stayed in London for the first week, then gone to Dublin, but now she was settled into a tiny bed and breakfast on the coast of Ireland, away from the hustle and bustle of the city. She'd been here for a few days, but the small seaside town had lost none of its charm. Emma was enchanted by everything about it, and she was glad she had an open-ended itinerary. It was the first place she'd seen in a very long time that she hadn't wanted to leave.

She was supposed to be writing – that was the rationale behind the trip, anyway, and behind her entire sabbatical from work – but she'd been more absorbing so far. She was looking for inspiration, and she hadn't found it quite yet. Maybe it was hidden in this town, she thought, looking down the long cobblestone street. There were shops all along, and as she took a few more steps she spotted a bookshop. Perfect. Getting lost in the stacks always got her creative wheels spinning.

Emma pushed the door open and stepped into the shop. It was dimly lit, but in a cozy way; the low lamplight reflected off the dark oak of the floor and shelves, making the room feel like it might have been a library of an eighteenth-century poet. Natural light fell in through the large window, leading her eye to an empty counter where a cash register sat. The shelves were high and close together; it looked like they extended into another room.

Emma stepped slowly, reverently towards the shelves, looking up at the handwritten signs denoting the sections. She took a deep breath, relishing the musty smell of paper and wood, and lifted a finger to the spine of a book. This was pretty close to her heaven.

"Can I help you find anything?"

Emma jumped and turned to see a man standing behind her. "I'm fine, thank you," she said before she could think about it. She felt an inexplicable blush rising up her neck. Well, maybe not entirely inexplicable – the guy was insanely attractive, she realized. He had messy dark hair and a shadowy layer of scruff on his jaw and the bluest eyes Emma had ever seen. He was wearing a plain t-shirt that stretched across his chest in a way that made it impossible not to imagine what he looked like without a shirt. And he was smiling at her, eyebrows slightly raised.

"You're American," he said, walking back to the counter. He grabbed a couple of books from a table on the way and swung behind the desk, adding them to a large stack. Emma drifted after him. "What brings you here?"

"I'm taking some leave from work, and I'm kind of just wandering around the UK right now," she said. "I've been here a few days. I like it better than the city."

One side of his mouth tipped up in a grin. "I like it better than the city myself," he said. "But we don't get too many tourists this time of year."

She shrugged. "I like the fog. I live near the beach back home. I'm used to it."

"So just wandering around?"

Emma nodded. "Doing research, you could say." She shifted, feeling self-conscious. "Actually, could you look up a book for me?"

"Aha," he said, his eyes twinkling. "I knew you were looking for something."

"Not actively looking, so much," Emma said uncomfortably. "Just… curious."

"You are a mysterious lass, aren't you?" the man said. "It's usually my job to be the mysterious one, I have to tell you."

Emma almost laughed. "The enigmatic bookshop owner? Do you lurk in the shadows of the shelves?"

"Popping out to startle customers like I startled you? Exactly."

They both laughed, but Emma's curiosity was piqued.

"So what's the title?"

"Oh, um, it's _The Carnival Thief_."

"Author?"

"Swan," Emma said.

"Fiction, right?"

"Yep. Crime."

"Hmm. Follow me." He swung through the little door and walked around the front of the counter, crooking a finger as he brushed past her. Emma followed him to the other room she'd noticed earlier and down a narrow aisle, her eyes involuntarily raking over his muscular shoulders. She noticed he had a small notebook sticking out of his pants pocket, and a tattoo on his arm.

"Here we are. S… I think I may have seen it before. Not sure, though." He ran a finger along the shelf. "Swan! Here it is." He pulled the book out and handed it to her triumphantly.

"Thanks," Emma said. A grin spread over her face as she looked down at the book, felt its weight in her hands. It had been a few years, but the thrill of seeing it never wore off.

"You read it before?" the guy asked as he led her out of the maze of books.

Emma laughed. "Um, I wrote it, actually." She scrunched up her nose, running a self-conscious hand through her hair as she glanced at him. She didn't usually tell people that when she found it, she just bought it as if she'd never seen it before, much less written and rewritten it over and over.

He turned around. "You wrote it?"

Emma shrugged. "Yeah. I know it's dumb, but I like looking for it in the places I travel. It's pretty crazy to find it in a tiny bookstore in Ireland."

"That's not dumb," he said. He took the book out of her hand and squinted at the back cover. He started walking again, still reading the synopsis, and she followed.

"Emma Swan," he said slowly. He turned back to grin at her again, and Emma rolled her eyes. He clearly made up for his boredom by flirting with everyone who came in here. But his enthusiasm was pretty contagious. She found a smile on her face in spite of herself. She wondered what his name was.

"Looks good," he said. "So you're actually going to buy it?"

"I don't know," Emma said. "I have a bunch of copies at home, so I don't really need to. It's just cool that it's here. But I always want to buy it anyway whenever I find it somewhere," she laughed.

"I have a better idea," the man said. He hopped over the barrier and back behind the counter, not bothering with the door this time. He looked at her and grinned. "I'll trade you."

"What?"

He squatted down and rummaged around for a second, then stood with another book in his hand. He held it out to her. "You read this. I'll read yours. We'll tell each other what we think, and then we'll trade back."

"What is this?" Emma asked, looking down as she took the book. _Sea Song_, by Killian Jones. She looked back up at him. "Is this yours?"

"Aye," he said. He scratched his cheek a little awkwardly. "It is."

"Wow, cool," Emma said. "So you're Killian."

"And you're Emma." He held her gaze for longer than was necessary, then tipped his chin toward the novel in her hand. "Read the book."

"Why?"

Killian shrugged. "Because I want to read yours, and there's nothing like a fair trade. And it sounds like you're going to be in town for a while. Might as well. It's okay if you hate it."

Emma rolled her eyes. "Thanks for your permission. Do I owe you anything for this?"

"Just this copy of your book and your honest opinion, love. Perhaps if I'm lucky you'll either love it or hate it enough to make a return visit."

Emma knew he was being flirtatious and she wanted to blow him off, but there was something about him that stopped her. His smile was endearing, and she liked his enthusiasm. He caught her off-guard in some way - maybe it was just because he was so attractive (and _God_, he was attractive), but she found herself agreeing and tucking the book into her bag. She didn't actually have to read it, or come back here if she didn't want to, she told herself.

"Well, uh, thanks," she said, frowning at him as she moved toward the door. "And seriously, you don't have to read that. Mine."

Killian gave her another one of those grins. "I read books for a living. I think I can make time."

"Okay. Well. Happy reading." She turned to leave, putting a hand up in a lame wave.

"Cheers," Killian said, holding her book up. "Nice to meet you, Emma Swan."

* * *

_Thank you for reading! If you're an old follower, I know I've been gone a while, so thanks for sticking with me. New friends, welcome! Let me know what you think? xx_


	2. Chapter 2

The best thing about the cottage Emma was staying at was that it was all hers. She'd rented the entire thing, and although the nice older couple who owned it lived down the road if she needed anything, she was blissfully alone. She cooked dinner for herself with the supplies she'd picked up at the market, poured herself a glass from the bottle of wine she'd opened the night before and settled down to relax.

There was a porch in the back with a swing and, bundling up, Emma went out to sit on it. The air here was so fresh, the landscape so green. She could see across a huge field from where she sat. Other houses with glowing windows dotted the landscape and, farther in the distance, she could make out the shadowy shapes of sheep.

She kept her notebook in her lap, but she didn't write. Tonight she felt more like thinking. It had always been her dream to live someplace this serene. She had never thought her life would be able to accommodate it. It was pretty cool that it could, even if only for a vacation.

Being a writer, though a small part of her day-to-day life, had opened doors Emma had never expected to find. It had surprised her, almost, when she'd written her novel - of course, she'd always been scribbling her thoughts down as a kid in the foster system, and she'd written plenty of stories as a form of escapism, but Emma had never considered herself a particularly creative type. Once she'd gotten her life back on track after Neal and jail and the abortion, she had thrown herself into her job as a bail bonds person. And after a while, the writing had just started coming out again, partly inspired by her own life with Neal and partly by all the stupid crimes and master plans she witnessed every day at work - an outlet for all the stress in her life, Emma guessed. Sometimes she didn't write at all and sometimes it overflowed from her like she couldn't stop it.

Around the time that she started writing seriously, Emma had moved to Maine for a new job and met Mary Margaret, a woman who was very popular in the small town Emma had moved to and who seemed inexplicably determined to become Emma's friend. It turned out Mary Margaret's stepmother was Regina Mills, the famous horror novelist. She was a prickly woman, to say the least, but after Mary Margaret found out about Emma's writing, she somehow got Regina to agree to take a look at it. Regina had been pushy (nearly rude) about Emma not letting her talent go to waste. It had been Regina who had gotten Emma to accept that she was a writer, rather than someone who merely writes - and that she should try to get _Carnival Thief _published.

Looking down at her notebook, Emma thought of Regina's writing advice. The woman frustrated Emma to no end half the time, but she knew what she was talking about. It all came from emotion, Regina said. You had to look inside yourself and tap into its raw power in order to get the words to flow. _Fiction is real_, she'd always say.

But Emma couldn't find the muse tonight. She kicked her heels against the wooden boards of the porch, pushing off as the swing rocked through the air. It was nice to just sit. It had been a long time since she'd been away from home, and she didn't even miss it. Just like she hadn't really missed Boston when she'd moved to Maine.

She liked it here so far. And she had some time here. She'd just live in the moment. That was all she ever really hoped for, anyway.

The encounter in the bookshop today swam back into her mind. On a whim, Emma stood up and went inside to retrieve Killian Jones' book. She hadn't really decided whether she'd read it, but she was curious.

She curled back up on the swing and opened to the first page.

* * *

It was late, well past ten, and yet Killian was still at the shop. A couple of Chinese takeout boxes from the restaurant next door sat empty on the counter, their contents long since polished off. His feet were up on the counter, and Emma Swan's book was in his lap.

He couldn't put it down.

Killian hadn't expected it to be _bad_, but what were the odds of it being amazing? The writing was stunning. A small smile graced his lips as he read a particularly beautiful passage, and he read it over again, whispering the words aloud.

Killian had been intrigued by the beautiful blonde American who had stumbled upon his shop, but now he was absolutely entranced by her. Her prose was gorgeous - simple and understated, not flowery and overdone. And where had she learned all this stuff about crime? Was it made-up, from research, or did she have personal experience with criminals? She didn't look like she did... but then again, he probably didn't look like a pro boat racer, he reminded himself with a bitter chuckle. That's because he wasn't one anymore, of course. Automatically, his fingers went to the tattoo on his arm, pressing into the flesh until the moment of remorse passed.

He looked back at Emma's book, turning it over to once again stare at the black-and-white picture of her on the back. Who was she? Killian had started out just flirting with her - or so he'd thought. He didn't really know _what _had made him suggest the trade, when it came down to it. Killian wasn't one to push his book on anybody - most of the time he pretended he hadn't even written a book, in fact - and he'd spent a lot of energy trying to avoid people who asked him when he was going to write another.

Yet something in this woman had compelled him to do it, to hand over a tiny piece of his soul to her- because that was what it was, one's book. When a stranger on the other side of the country bought your book, it was an anonymous if gratifying transaction that you only found out about later when you got your royalty check. People reading your book was something that you wanted to happen everywhere but that you wanted to know nothing about. When you actually gave your book to someone to read... it was very different. It was personal. It was opening part of yourself bare.

Killian tore his eyes from her portrait and opened the book again. He only had a few chapters to go. He might as well finish.

* * *

Maybe it was the new surroundings, or maybe it was the wine she'd drunk, but when Emma lay down to go to bed that night, her brain was still buzzing. And when she closed her eyes, all she could see were bright blue ones staring back at her. The characters from Killian's book swam in her head.

She sat up, threw the covers off and snapped the light on. She grabbed the stupid book and settled down to read.

* * *

_Penny for your thoughts!_


	3. Chapter 3

The bell on the door of the bookshop was still and silent.

It had been that way all day. Killian had been waiting - hoping. Hoping that Emma Swan might come pushing through the door.

But it was getting late, and every time he had heard the bell's jangle it just been some local schoolkids, or a couple of tourists, or old Mrs. McGregor stopping in on her weekly shopping trip. He probably was never going to see Emma again, he told himself. That was a much more realistic scenario than the one he'd concocted in his head about her showing up, his book in her hand, and them having so much to talk about that he'd ask to take her to dinner, and she'd agree, and he'd show her around the village, and they'd trade critiques of their books over the best steak and potatoes Ireland had to offer...

God. Killian shook his head. What had gotten into him? So a pretty girl wrote a good book.

And so he hadn't met a girl as pretty as Emma in a long time (maybe ever, the unhelpful voice in the back of his head said). So most of the girls he did meet weren't exactly literary types. So the writing in her book had touched him in a way he hadn't been touched in a while. So what.

He picked the book up off the counter and stared at Emma Swan's picture again. Her eyes were straightforward and confident and a little suspicious, just as they had been in the flesh. He remembered their piercing green.

_So you are totally screwed, Killian Jones, that's what._

* * *

Emma had finally gone to sleep around six a.m. She had read straight through the early-morning tolls of the grandfather clock that was in the living room, and straight through all twenty-two chapters of Killian's book, as if she'd been put under a spell. She had closed the back cover slowly when she finished, tears streaming down her face.

She'd carefully traced a finger over the tiny portrait of him on the back. Who was this man? The book had been beautiful, a rather epic tale about the meaning of home and the loss of love. And it had been raw. Reading the words had felt like touching a finger to an open wound. Most books just skimmed the flesh, but every once in a while one got all the way to the heart. His book was like that.

Her reaction to the story had taken Emma completely by surprise. She had sat there in awe, a little bit, recovering from the emotion of it. Then she'd curled up in bed and slept the morning away, his characters weaving in and out of her dreams along with characters of her own, underdeveloped ideas from her new novel that swirled around, dancing over the coastal Irish cliffs.

Now, this was the fourth time that afternoon Emma had walked up the street toward the bookshop - and the fourth time she had turned around. What would she say? She was slightly embarrassed of the blubbering mess she'd been reduced to last night. She didn't usually get that emotional. Now she didn't know how to talk about the book. She couldn't tell him she liked it without telling him she loved it, and she wasn't about to talk feelings with him. It was too personal, too weird. Plus, what if he had hated hers? Sure, she'd gotten some really good starred reviews, but there was no way hers was as good as his; Killian was clearly in a different league. Emma didn't want a pity review.

The guy who had flirted with her yesterday seemed so far from the man who must have written this novel. But she had the opportunity to know him, and aside from wanting to talk shop with him, she was intensely curious about who he was. And yet she was a little afraid of going in the shop. Emma didn't _do _this - whatever this was. Hell, she hardly ever even cried at books - let alone talked about it with strangers.

"Hello, there."

Emma stopped dead. She looked up to see Killian standing in the doorway of his shop, a broom in one hand, shading his eyes with the other as he grinned at her.

"You aren't coming to see me, are you?" he asked, teasing.

"Uh, yeah, I was." Emma swallowed and nodded. She held up the book. "I, uh, I finished it. I know that was fast, I just..."

She trailed off, embarrassed that she had read it so quickly. But Killian was leaning against the side of the shop window now, arms folded across his chest, still smiling at her.

"I finished yours too," he said. "It was good."

"Really?"

He nodded, surveying her with those electric blue eyes. "You want to come in?"

Emma finally smiled. "Sure."

Killian picked up the broom and ushered her inside. "After you, milady."

Emma's arm brushed his chest as she passed through the door. She sucked in her breath. Her nerves were jangling.

"So you really read it?" she asked.

"Couldn't put it down, love." Killian put the broom in the corner and walked over to her.

Emma fixed him with a look as she leaned against the counter, watching him. "Now you're messing with me."

"No, I'm serious," he said. "I haven't read a book like that in a long time." He smiled at her, his expression still teasing. "But before I go on too much, deliver the bad news. What did you think of mine?" He tipped his chin toward her hand, which was still clutching the book.

"Oh. It was... I loved it," Emma said. "It was brilliant."

Killian met her eyes sharply. (God, no wonder she'd dreamed about their blue.) "You really thought so?" he asked.

He had had plenty of people tell him that before, but somehow it meant something different coming from Emma. Having read her work, her opinion meant all the more - and besides, he got the idea that she wasn't the kind of person to bullshit anyone.

Emma leaned forward. "Couldn't put it down, love."

Killian laughed. His eyes were locked on hers. "You want to grab some food?"

"Oh, I..."

"Come on." Killian jerked his head toward the door, that small grin back on his face. "I know a really great place."

Twenty minutes later, they were sitting above the ocean, take-out boxes between them, feet swinging off the edge of the large boulder they were perched upon. It was gorgeous, everything fresh and green, the wind carrying sea spray up to them.

"This is beautiful," Emma murmured. "Do you come up here a lot?"

"Have since I was a boy," Killian said, giving her a smile. His cheeks were ever so slightly flushed from the cool air and their short hike up, and Emma noticed his hair had been ruffled in the wind. "It's one of my favorite spots. I used to sit up here and dream about sailing. I imagined this was my path to the entire world," he said, gesturing to the sea below with a sweeping arm.

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Emma said. "When I was a kid, I thought that if I could just get out of wherever I was, I would have the world in front of me. Like once you get your first freedom, everything else just falls into place. But life doesn't work that way, does it?"

Killian exhaled a short laugh. "No, it doesn't."

He opened the paper bag he'd been carrying and got out two beers. Handing one to Emma, he produced a keychain bottle opener and popped her cap off before doing his.

"Cheers," he said. "To meeting a fellow writer."

Emma smiled, clinking her bottle against his. "Cheers."

"So. The books. Where do we start?"

He raised an eyebrow at Emma, a look that she felt all the way down to her toes. She returned it with a smile that twinkled unwittingly.

"Well. I loved the way yours ended. That it wasn't happy and everything didn't get fixed. But there was still hope."

Killian nodded. "The ending was one of the first things I wrote. I always knew it would end that way, and once I'd written the whole thing and gotten to know the characters it kind of broke my heart," he laughed. "But it was important to me, you know, to have it be like life. Life doesn't always work out perfectly."

"I agree," Emma said. "Happy endings are for fairy tales."

Killian laughed. "Yours ended in a pretty badass way, though. Angela got herself out of jail and busted that guy."

"Yeah, but she wasn't really happy, was she? She busted the man she thought was her true love."

"Will there be a sequel? Maybe her true love is waiting for her just around the corner."

He was joking, mostly, and Emma laughed. "Maybe."

"So, the life of crime. Did you have firsthand experience?"

"I might have," Emma said, giving him a wry smile. She rested her chin on one knee, tilting her head to look at him. He was stretched out on the rock, his hands planted behind him, and Emma's eyes traveled down his lean form. She had realized he was attractive right away, but he was even more attractive here, in what was clearly his natural habitat, and now that she was getting to know him. "But I am a bail bonds person for my day job. So chasing down bad guys is kinda my thing."

Killian raised his eyebrows. "Wow."

"What, surprised?"

"A little, I admit. But that's pretty badass."

Killian glanced at Emma and she laughed, and then he laughed, too, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he grinned. Emma took a sip of beer and looked back at him.

"So were you a sailor?"

Killian looked down, then nodded. "Aye. Once upon a time." He gave her a forced smile. "But after a bit of adventuring, I came back here. I prefer a quiet life. It's a great place for writing, and I'm always meeting new people in tourist season."

There was something vacant about his words. Emma narrowed her eyes, but she didn't want to push him too much. "Do you miss it?"

He looked up, meeting her eyes, then out at the darkening sea. "Every day. But it... was complicated, when I moved back. Kind of a painful time, really." Killian chuckled. "But I won't bore you with the details. I do love it here. No place like home, you know."

Emma smiled in silent assent, but she knew the expression didn't reach her eyes.

"Where's your home, Swan?" Killian asked, leaning back on his hand and taking a swig of beer.

"Maine, like I said," she replied. "The state that's way in the northeast of the U.S."

He chuckled. "I know where Maine is. But you said you just moved there a couple of years ago. Where's your hometown?"

"I don't really have one," Emma said. "My parents gave me up, so I went from home to home as a kid, but none of the families ever kept me. Since I came of age, I've lived in a bunch of different places."

Killian's brow was creased, and there was too much concern in his eyes for someone who had just met her the day before. "I'm sorry."

Emma blinked at him, then smiled. "Thanks." She appreciated his honesty, his simplicity.

"I'm sure I can't understand, but I know what it's like to feel like you've lost your home," Killian said. "That's partly why I ended up back here. But long before that, I was an orphan. My parents died when I was young, and my older brother took care of me."

Emma kept her gaze trained on him. "Really?"

He nodded slowly, still staring at his thumb rubbing patterns over the beer bottle. "The bookshop... it was my father's. Liam was eighteen and I was thirteen. He took over the store, I finished school. People helped us. You know how they say it takes a village? For me, it literally did."

Emma gave him a small smile. He blinked, and smiled back. The air between them was warm; something like understanding passed between them, weighted and steady. Emma wanted to know more, and she also, suddenly, felt like she could tell him anything. She felt like he would listen - she felt like he would understand. But it was getting late, and she didn't want to ruin the evening with a trip down memory lane.

"Are you working on a new book?" she asked instead.

Killian shrugged. "Not in the way that my agent wishes. I write off and on. It's just been... Well, I've found it hard to write since I moved back here."

He was looking down again, and Emma studied his face. Why did she feel like she knew him already? She'd only met him yesterday, yet here she wanted to ask him his life story and tell him hers. She wondered about what had happened, about all the things that had inspired the novel. It came dangerously close to wondering about him, rather than about his book, but Emma chose to be blind to the line she was skirting.

Killian looked up, and a forced bright expression had returned to his face. "You are, though, right? That's why you're here? Is it another crime story?"

"Yeah. Theoretically, at least," Emma said. "I mean, I have a plot I'm chasing, and I've done some work on it, but I haven't written as much as I thought I would on this trip. I thought it was because I was being too touristy in the city, and now that I'm here I really want to settle down to it, but for some reason I haven't yet. But I guess it's only been two nights."

"And you spent one of those reading my book," Killian said, winking at her.

She rolled her eyes. "Don't look so pleased with yourself."

They stayed up there until the sun had nearly sunk into the waiting sea, talking about their books, exchanging stories about plot points and last-minute changes and how they'd come up with this concept or that scene. They lost track of time. When it was moving from sunset to twilight, Killian reluctantly suggested they walk back.

Emma loved it more than she wanted to let on. Killian was smart and quick. Analyzing plot with him felt like part holding a mirror up to herself, part discovering a new path in a familiar woods. And he was fun. She realized sometime after their dinner was gone and their bottles empty that she had hardly stopped laughing. His perfect cheekbones and the scruff around his jaw didn't hurt either - but Emma wasn't here to strike up a romance. This was a professional relationship. She was doing what she had gone traveling to do - meet new people, hear new stories. (Still, she could look.)

Killian walked her to the pier, where her bicycle was locked, and made sure she knew the route home (she did) before letting her go.

"Thanks for dinner," Emma said, shoving her hands in her back pockets. "It was fun."

"Thank you, lass," Killian said. "I'm really glad you came by. And I'm glad you read it. I haven't had such a good discussion in ages."

Emma smiled, taking a step back. She couldn't tell if he wanted to hit on her, and she didn't want him to.

"Good night," she said.

It was dark now, and she could barely see Killian's eyes.

"Will I see you around?" he asked. He reached out a hand to steady her handlebars as she unlocked her bike.

"Yeah," Emma said. She put her own hand on the handlebars, and looked down at his. It took him a minute to let go.

"Good. Good night, Swan."

She laughed as she mounted her bike. "Good night, Jones."

Emma could hear his chuckle behind her. She pedaled down the street, aware that that had been the best evening she'd had in a long time. She'd had a lot of thoughts she'd wanted to write down while they were talking, and she was looking forward to getting back and setting them down on paper.

It was only after Emma got home that she realized they had forgotten to trade books back. Except the copy of hers didn't actually belong to her, so really she at least needed to give him his back. She'd sworn she wouldn't hook up with any guys while she was on this trip (and besides, her walls were too high for that to happen anyway), but she still felt a little thrill at the idea that she had an excuse to see him again.

Emma got the book out, intending to put it on top of her purse so she would remember to return it, but instead she opened it. Sinking to the couch, she reread the first few pages. Then she got her notebook.


	4. Chapter 4

_Hi there! It's been a while for this one, but I'm back. This is sort of my pet project, I think, the one I just really want to write for myself. So I hope you like it too! I'm hoping to post another chapter this week._

* * *

Emma couldn't stop writing. It was like a floodgate had been opened, and ever since that day with Killian, she'd been working almost nonstop. Plot was coming out nearly fully formed, surprising her, and she had that rare and elusive feeling that every writer yearns and waits for: that the story was all inside her, just waiting to be given life.

She wasn't sure why, but she wasn't going to pry too closely into her own psyche when she was getting so much work done. Maybe it partly was because of her setting. She was starting to think Ireland might actually be magic; it had finally unlocked her creativity as she had hoped it would. (There was also the possibility that she'd been inspired by reading a certain Killian Jones' masterful writing, but she wasn't thinking about that.)

Emma was starting to fall in love with this place. She had always liked small towns- she liked the idea that a community might be like a family, might all take care of each other, even though she'd never experienced it herself. People here kind of seemed like that, and even if she was only an outside observer, she liked it. There was a woman everyone called Granny who ran a diner Emma had taken to eating at in the mornings. She and her granddaughter, Ruby, seemed to know everyone in the town, and sometimes when Emma was sitting at the bar with her notebook Ruby would keep up a little narration for her benefit, telling her about whoever was in the diner that morning. There was also a sweet grump of a man named Leroy whom Emma had semi-befriended; he ran the grocery store and seemed to have taken a liking to her (or maybe he called everybody "sister," but still, he always helped Emma pick the freshest looking produce of the bunch). One of Leroy's many friends, a man named Archie, always seemed to be around to be point Emma in the right direction or give her recommendations for whatever she was looking for, like a self-appointed town tour guide.

However, for all the new sort-of friends she seemed to have made, there was one person she had not seen for a while: Killian Jones. She still had his book in her cottage, and she'd gone back to it a couple of times over the course of the week. Returning it would be a good excuse to see him again, but somehow she didn't want to part with it just yet. And she didn't want to be a stalker, either, hanging around his bookshop. It wasn't like he was any more important than Leroy or Granny, just another of the interesting people she'd met here. Or so she told herself. But Leroy and Granny didn't sneak into her thoughts quite so often, nor did either of them feel like a mystery she inexplicably wanted to crack.

Today she was back at Granny's, where she'd found the ambient noise provided a nice contrast to the quiet of her cottage when she needed it, laptop out on the counter and her fingers flying over the keys. She took a break mid-morning for some hot cocoa when there was a quiet spell in the diner, and Ruby came over to gossip about the couple who had just left the diner.

"Hey, Ruby? Can I ask you something?" Emma glanced up at the girl, whose perfectly arched eyebrow raised in curiosity. "What's the deal with that guy, Killian? Who runs the bookshop?"

"Ooh, met Killian, have you? He's the prodigal son of this town – and the recluse."

"He seemed pretty friendly."

"Oh, he's lovely," Ruby assured her. "Just… You know, he stopped writing, and he kind of holes up in that shop. Keeps his distance from us all now. I practically grew up with him, I know he'd do anything for me or anyone else in this town, but the most I ever talk to him is when he orders a latte."

Emma frowned. She was about to ask more, but Granny had come up behind Ruby.

"Oh, poor dear Killian. He was our star, but…" Granny trailed off, and she exchanged a sad look with Ruby. "We all love him, don't we?" she said. "I only wish he'd find some happiness. But he loves this town. Loves that bookshop. He's a good lad. He doesn't let anybody in, though. More cocoa?"

"Um, yes, thanks," Emma said, and Granny took her cup and bustled away. Ruby gave her a smile and went back to the cash register. Emma frowned down at her laptop, but her fingers didn't return to the keys for a long while.

* * *

Killian didn't see Emma for an entire week after their pleasant evening on the rocks. He heard that she had been hanging around Granny's, that Leroy and Archie and Victor had all met her, but he didn't run into her himself. He kept worrying that she might leave town before he saw her again, but he told himself not to be stupid. She was just some tourist... beautiful and talented or not, of course she would leave at some point... but besides, she had said she was staying some weeks.

Killian was a little distracted in the bookshop that week. His thoughts kept turning from book orders to blond hair, shelving to a certain smile. And yet suddenly he found himself forming sentences with clarity in his mind. He found something unfolding there - he wasn't sure what it was going to be, but it was something.

So on Saturday he walked up to his spot above the sea with a notebook in hand, planning to try to make sense of the fragments he'd been jotting down all week. For once, he wasn't thinking about the intriguing Emma Swan, and that, perhaps, was precisely why he had the chance to find her sitting in his spot at the top of the climb.

"Well, hello there, Swan."

Emma jumped and looked over her shoulder to see Killian standing there, a smile on his face and one foot on a rock. "Oh... hi." She slapped her notebook closed and quickly stood up, looking embarrassed. "Sorry, I... I didn't mean to invade your spot."

Killian laughed. "No apologies necessary, lass. It's a beautiful place. I'm glad you like it." He nodded to her notebook. "You writing?"

"Yeah, but I was really done anyway. I'll give you some peace."

"No, you don't have to go." Killian looked at her. "Stay."

Emma laughed nervously, apparently uncertain as to whether or not she should decline, but Killian walked a few steps ahead of her and plopped down on the ground. After a moment, she followed suit.

"Are you writing too?" Emma asked, noticing the notebook in his hand.

He looked down at it, as if it was a strange thing for him to be holding, and back at her. "Yeah, I guess I am."

"Your next book, or just writing?"

"I think the book. Maybe. It's too soon to tell."

Emma laughed. "I feel that. Do you know what it's about yet?"

Killian didn't know what he was going to say until it came out of his mouth. "Redemption." He laughed and looked down. "Maybe. I dunno."

Emma gave him an appraising look. "Well, I'll leave you to it, then. No, it's fine," she said when he started to protest. "I really was almost finished, and I'm getting hungry anyway. I'll see you around. Good luck." And she patted him on the shoulder as she stood. It was completely innocent contact, but it was the first time she'd deliberately touched him, and Killian's entire body sprang to alert.

"All right then," he managed to say, twisting around to watch her go. "Bye, Swan."

"Bye, Jones." She smiled and started down the path. Killian stared after her for a few moments. He wanted to be dumbstruck by her, but the words were already forming in his mind. Pushing aside worries about the exact effect she had on his inspiration (beggars can't be choosers, Jones, just write it down) he started to write.

Ten pages later, Killian stood, brushing dirt off his jeans. His head was full of the story he'd been creating, and he found it strangely mixed up with blond hair and green eyes.

What was the actual definition of the word 'muse'? Killian needed to look it up when he got home, because he was dangerously close to thinking Emma Swan might be his.


	5. Chapter 5

Emma tossed and turned that night. She found herself thinking about what Granny and Ruby had said about Killian in the diner. _He's a recluse. Poor dear Killian... _She wanted to know what they meant. But also, the words had hit close to home. She herself had been described in very similar terms before. Maybe that was why she kept thinking about him, maybe she saw something in him that mirrored her.

Soon Emma was weaving in and out of half-conscious dreams about red lips on her neck, a scruffy beard on her skin, her hands on a hard chest... all the things that could have happened up there on that cliff-top if this were a different life and she were not Emma Swan. She could've stayed up there a little longer, talking with him until dark fell and a foggy chill stole over the landscape so they sat a little closer together... until their hands were all over each other and he was pushing her up against a tree... Emma let her brain live in this fantasy in these twilight hours because she knew it was far from reality. Those kinds of things didn't happen to her, and she'd continue to make sure they wouldn't- she was here to work (as she increasingly, to her annoyance, had to remind herself).

But somehow Emma found herself in Jones' bookshop the next day, his book nervously pressed between her hands.

Killian's face lit up in a smile when he saw her come through the door. "Swan! To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She smiled and bit her lip. "Well, I kind of kidnapped your book," she said, holding it up. "I also might have spilled some tea on it."

Jones laughed. "You keep it."

"Seriously?" Emma kept her hand outstretched, holding the book out to him. He pushed it back toward her.

"Yeah. Although it's quite an honor to have Emma Swan's tea spilled on my book," he teased. "For payment I'll keep yours."

"Since you own this bookstore, I'm not sure that's really payment, but okay." Emma smiled in spite of herself. "Thanks," she said. She stuck the book under her arm and shoved her hands in her pockets, suddenly feeling shy.

Killian's eyes twinkled. "Well, if you really want me to exact payment, how about this... Go out to dinner with me."

Emma bit her lip, looking away from his blue eyes. "I don't know, shouldn't you be writing?" she asked, pushing off from the counter and wandering to the tables in the middle of the room. It was flirtatious, but it also wasn't a yes.

Killian frowned. "I think I can take a night off. Like I told you, I'm not writing much lately."

She looked up at him from behind a table. "You were yesterday."

"Aye. I was."

Emma looked at Killian. There was something dark and complex in his eyes, something layered beneath his speech. Ruby and Granny's mysterious words about him echoed in her head. She wondered if anyone ever challenged him anymore, if anyone ever even asked him questions about himself.

"You're incredibly successful, Jones. Why haven't you written more?"

Something in his face closed off. "Working on it," he said gruffly. He turned away and began stacking a pile of new books.

"Are you?"

Killian dug his hands into the counter, turning to look at her. "Why haven't _you_ written more?"

Emma shrugged, taken by surprise by his intensity. It was a great question. Why, for instance, was she standing here in his bookstore instead of working on her book? She couldn't find much of an explanation in her brain.

"Well, that's why I haven't, too, then."

"Jeez, sorry."

"Look, you don't tell me about your life, I don't tell you about mine. Maybe we should stop asking questions." It came out much harsher than he'd intended it to. The last thing he wanted was for Emma Swan to go away, but his old demons had spoken for him. And he was stinging from her essential rebuff of his dinner invite. Who was this woman? (And why did he feel the need to figure her out?)

"Okay, I get it," Emma said, taking a step backward. "See you around, Jones."

"Emma- wait-"

"No, it's okay," she said, holding up a hand. She was already at the door. "You're right. I don't know you, you don't know me. See ya."

And she pushed out the door.

* * *

Emma sat at the kitchen table in her cottage. She'd written a ton that morning before going to the bookshop and had really been on a roll, and now should've been the perfect time to continue, with a view of the rain coming down on the field outside the bay window and this cozy kitchen to sit in. But it was giving her cabin fever. She couldn't think about anything but her argument with Killian. Ordinarily, Emma would've been pissed if someone had talked to her like that, but for some reason, she found herself trying to understand him - and even stranger, wanting to explain herself.

Before she could think about what she was doing, she pulled her notebook toward her.

_I know it wasn't my place to pry this afternoon_, she wrote, then stopped. She took a deep breath and put the pen back down on the paper. She didn't have to actually give it to him if she wrote it.

_I guess I was curious about you - occupational hazard, right? I wondered how long it had been since anyone had really asked you about yourself. Maybe that sounds impertinent now, but the truth is I haven't been able to get some of the things you said that night on your hill out of my head._

_You asked me questions no one has asked me for a long time. About home and my past. I have a couple of close friends back home who know my story, but they don't understand it. I've never met someone who could. It's funny, being here was supposed to be an escape from the real world, but somehow this tiny town is making me face everything I've been running from for years._

_Running. I tend to do that a lot. I wonder if you understand that. Someone who sailed around the world seems like they must. I wonder if you ever took your boat and just made for the horizon, letting the wind take your sails. I would've loved that idea as a child._

_Yet you are also someone who came home. I have never been that person. I couldn't be. I understand home even less than I understand sailing, which is saying something. I always thought someday someone might teach me how to understand it, but I gave that hope up a long time ago._

_I can imagine you so easily at the helm of a boat, windblown and flushed and alive. I don't know why, but I can. You traded in a life of exhilaration for one of quiet. I wonder what you lost to the sea._

_I had a boyfriend named Neal when I was seventeen. One night, when we'd been dating for a while, he broke into a carnival for a date. We sat on the swings and talked and even though I was slightly worried we'd get caught, I was naive and alone and I thought he would give me the moon. I've tried to forget many of the things he said to me, but that night, he said something I think I've kept with me ever since. He said that home is the place where, when you leave it, you just miss it. I think, whether I realized it or not, that's been my standard for home all these years. You just miss it. And I've never felt that._

_I'm not sure why you and I met. Ireland is a strange place so far, I think. I'm also not sure why I'm writing this to you right now. All I know is I felt like I needed to. I'm sorry about earlier. Hope you have a good night. Or morning, if you're reading this in the morning - I don't know if you live above your shop or what, but I'm just going to stick it under the door there so maybe you won't see it until you open tomorrow. If I even give it to you. Which I probably shouldn't._

_Night, Jones._

_Emma_

Emma put down her pen and stared at it. She had bared some of her thoughts more thoroughly on this page than she had ever done to any person, or even in her own writing. She knew she either needed to deliver it or burn it. She folded the paper and wrote "Jones" on the front before she could read over it again. Grabbing her keys and a coat, she mounted her bicycle and rode toward town.

* * *

_Thank you for the reviews and follows! xo_


	6. Chapter 6

Killian saw it when he was flipping the "closed" sign over as he opened the shop the next morning. He stepped on it first, then picked it up. He turned it over. _Killian, _it said on the front. He unfolded it slowly.

Whoa.

Moving slowly, as if in a dream, Killian reached up and flipped the sign on the door back to the "Closed" side without taking his eyes off the paper. He went around back and climbed up the stairs to his loft, where, still reading, he kicked off his shoes and fell back on the bed.

Killian held the letter above his face as he finished and started it over yet again. His heart was pounding, or maybe it had stopped. He imagined the words in Emma's voice, wondering vaguely what had possessed her to write this to him – but he was more than glad she had. He stared at the letter, his mouth soundlessly forming the words as he read.

"God, Emma," he murmured aloud. His stomach felt like it was on a roller coaster as he read, the words affecting him anew every time he saw them even as he began to memorize them. His insides dipped along between her strikingly honest revelations about herself and her pointed, painfully accurate assessments of him.

_I wondered how long it had been since anyone had really asked you about yourself._

That felt like a knife in his stomach, one that drew out hot shame instead of blood. She read him so easily. But Emma had been so honest and, when he thought about it, _trusting_ in what she'd written that Killian didn't feel too mortified, as he would have if anyone else had said that to him. Instead he felt like maybe she understood.

_I can imagine you so easily at the helm of a boat, windblown and flushed and alive._

Killian's stomach muscles tightened as he studied that line (perhaps the best one in the entire thing), his eyes tracing the curves of her handwriting as he imagined her writing the word "flushed," imagined her imagining him.

And it went much deeper than the blood that it sent rushing to his cheeks and (if he was being honest) his groin, because somehow hearing her say that about him made him feel alive. It made him _want _to be at the helm of a boat, and that was a desire he hadn't felt for a very long time, at least not mixed with a lot of pain and guilt. This Emma Swan was a powerful woman.

_You traded in a life of exhilaration for one of quiet. I wonder what you lost to the sea._

The words knocked the breath out of him. They could have been critical, damning, even, in his own mind, but they weren't. They were benign, curious, calm. In any other circumstance, they would have made him crumple up the paper, pushing away tears, and go find something to take his anger out on. Instead he found himself picking up a pen, knocking things off his nightstand in his haste to grab some paper.

_Emma,_

_If anyone should apologize, it's me. I'm sorry I bit your head off when you asked about my writing. You're right, I'm not used to people asking me personal questions. I'm not used to talking to anyone about my writing, either, and although you saw me with my notebook the other day, to be honest, this last week is the first time I've put pen to paper in months. I haven't known how to write without getting upset; yet the fact that I'm not writing angers me, too. So you could say it's been a bit of a sore spot._

_So __The Carnival Thief__ came from Neal? He sounds like an arse. But my book came from my ex, as well. And I think that's why I've felt I couldn't write again – well, one of the many reasons why. I have lately felt, or at least talked myself into believing, that it was a one-time-only piece of inspiration. The book sprang from a finite well. I try to plumb its depths but hit only stone. It's dried up. I had that one story in me, I had reasons to write it, and I did. So who's to say there's anything else left? That was the story I had to tell._

_You say I'm someone who came home, and in some ways that's true. But in some ways I'm still searching for it, just like you. Because my definition of home, unlike yours and Neal's, revolved around people, and so that definition was broken a long time ago. Maybe everyone is looking for home, though, don't you think? Looking for the person they call home. Looking for the place they don't want to leave. Looking for the career that gives them meaning. And so maybe there are many different definitions of home, as well. Maybe we can even have multiple homes. Though I don't know if I'd ever be that lucky._

_So though I came home, I didn't, exactly: sometimes the most effective form of running is staying in one place. I wasn't trading in for a life of quiet; I was, and still am, trying to stay away from anything that reminds me of my sailing days. I was trying to escape by coming back here. I still try to escape by never leaving. It's backwards, I know, but it was the only thing that made sense. And now, the bookshop and my routine here are the only things that have made sense to me for a long time. Until I met you, I think. _

_It's been years since I sailed. But you make me think I'd like to go out again. You make me think about being at the helm and making for the horizon, like you said. I can imagine you windblown and flushed, too. I think you'd like it on the ocean._

_Thank you for the letter. Good night, Swan._

_Killian_

He spent all day rereading it, pulling it out of his pocket to edit it - crossing things out and scribbling in the margins, the cap of his pen between his teeth and his spare hand ruffling his hair as he frowned at the paper - before he finally copied out a final draft and scrawled her name on the front of it. _Emma_. He whispered it to himself.

That night, when Emma came inside from writing on the swing on the back porch, she found a letter slipped under her door. She chuckled to herself – he'd figured out where she lived, and she could appreciate a good sleuth. Ignoring the way her stomach leaped, Emma slipped a finger under the flap of the envelope.

* * *

_more to come soon! I really want to write this one but I'm going as fast as my busy life allows. Reviews make my day :)_


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